Over There
by Lala Kate
Summary: A Christmas tale set in the universe of "Play Dates and Park Benches".


_**Over There**_**: A Play Dates and Park Benches Christmas ficlet**

_I have jumped ahead a bit in the narrative for this drabble, but although there are some teasers, no spoilers abound. The next true chapter of Play Dates should post in the next two weeks, and all of the background that leads into this setting will be covered in Chapters 4 and 5. That being said, I do hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Merry Christmas to all of my precious readers—I appreciate you more than you know._

_Own nothing, but very thankful this wonderful show exists. :) _

* * *

"So what was his name again? The shorter partner with the receding hairline?"

Her low murmur against his ear made her question nearly indiscernible, and he had to force his eyes from her nearly bare shoulder, the thin black strap leaving little to his imagination.

"Barkley," he managed, swallowing with effort. "Roland Barkley."

She nodded twice, studying the gentleman briefly before returning her gaze directly to his.

"I don't like him, particularly," she observed, leaning in close so as to not be overheard. "He stares too much."

Matthew had noticed the same thing, wanting to punch the man squarely in the jaw for the carnal way at which he visually devoured her, knowing his tenure with this firm would be over the moment contact was made.

"I agree," he whispered, guiding her away from the man in question with his hand on her back—her partially bare back—wondering the entire journey how he was going to keep half of the room from ogling her in that dress that gently teased at being classy lingerie.

Dear God, he couldn't stop ogling her himself.

She had been concerned over his first reaction to her choice of attire, his slack-jawed expression and lack of verbal ability making her worry if she had somehow lost all sense of fashion. But when she had offered to change into something more sensible, he had softly grasped her arm and drawn her close.

"Don't you dare," he had whispered hoarsely, the deepened indigo of his eyes nearly buckling her knees on the spot.

She had left the dress alone.

They were the first ones seated at their table, and she looked around the room in curiosity, her brow creasing further the more she observed.

"Why is everyone staring at us, Matthew?" she questioned, the genuine concern on her face palpable.

"God, Mary," he began, shaking his head ruefully. "You look amazing in that dress, and…"

"No, no, not like that," she clarified, leaning in closer. "I mean they're looking at me as if I've sprouted wings or something."

"Oh," he murmured, dropping his gaze to his plate as his face reddened decidedly. "They're curious, I suspect. I'm really not comfortable at cooperate events like this, and I haven't attended any social functions with a woman since…"

His voice drifted off, his eyes finally returning to hers.

"Well, since…"

"Since Lavinia died," she finished for him, accepting his slow nod as her chest constricted slightly. "You didn't have to bring me tonight, you know."

"I wanted to bring you," he insisted, reaching across the table to stroke her hand. "I just hadn't realized how openly people would gawk."

"So I'm currently under inspection, it would seem," she observed, daring a glance around the room's perimeter. "I certainly hope I pass."

He licked his lips self-consciously, the sincerity in his gaze hitching her breath.

"How could you not?"

A slow shiver waltzed up her spine.

They joined in the applause as the band ended their number, and she shot a quick look over her shoulder towards the stage as a ballad was struck up.

"What is it?" he questioned, perplexed as her entire body went suddenly rigid.

"This song," she whispered, her eyes nearly owl-like as they finally looked back to him. "I used to love it. It was—"

She cut herself off, grasping her glass of water as if it were a lifeline, taking a rather large sip.

"It had special meaning for you and Tony," he attempted, confused when she shook her head slightly.

"No, not exactly," she began, her hand trembling slightly as she set down her glass. He watched her in concern as her color continued to fade, taking a deep breath as he realized she was not yet ready to offer anything further.

"Come on," he ordered softly, standing rather quickly. "Let's get some fresh air."

"But we've only just sat down," she protested, already rising to her feet as he steered her towards the doorway.

"I don't care," he returned, rather alarmed by the chill of her skin. "You need a drink, and I'm already tired of being the evening's key point of interest."

She offered no further protest, allowing him to guide her through a maze of unknown faces directly to a small cash bar.

"Here you are," he offered, maneuvering the pair of them into a corner, drinks in hand. "An appletini to cure whatever ails you."

"That's a rather tall order for any drink," she mused, enjoying the mild burn that trailed the sweetness down her throat. "I may require two."

"Well I did drive tonight, so have as many as you want," he teased, his lopsided grin unknotting a ball of tension in her stomach as the alcohol warmed her limbs.

"Why, Matthew Crawley," she stated, lifting a brow precariously. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Of course not," he insisted, his act of being affronted dissolving immediately into a guilty grin. "Well, perhaps only slightly drunk."

"I should warn you now," she began, never breaking eye contact as she took another sip. "I can get a little out of hand."

"Stop tempting me," he teased, feeling a warmth unrelated to alcohol seep through his veins as she bit her bottom lip. "That dress of yours has weakened my will-power decidedly. Now _you_have been warned."

A flirtatious grin crept continually upward, dancing across reddened lips that left an attractive print on the rim of her glass.

"And I was afraid you didn't like it," she teased, watching the tips of his ears become an attractive shade of pink.

"Like doesn't even begin to describe my feelings for that garment," he answered, leaning in closer to smell her perfume.

"Hmmm, is that so?" she questioned, a sense of daring spurring her on. "So how exactly would you describe them? Your feelings, I mean."

"For your dress?" he breathed, suddenly oblivious to the fact that there were other people in the room with them.

"Of course," she clarified, gazing into him with hooded eyes. "What other feelings would I be asking you about so directly?"

A heated charge magnetized them together, their bodies communicating in an unspoken manner quite detached from conscious reason.

"Well," he began, loosening his collar reflexively. "I must tell you that it captured my attention from the first time I laid eyes on it."

"Really?" she put in, toying with her string of pearls unconsciously. "I had no idea its effect was so powerful."

"I was rather taken by surprise by the strength of its allure, myself, to be honest," he confessed, the bashful grin on his face contrasting with the bold nearness of his stance. "I've never really been one to let sheer emotion and physical attraction dictate my actions. But it nearly took my breath as it is simply the most striking and elegant dress I have ever seen. It somehow manages to be both classy and sensual, a combination I seem to be finding completely irresistible."

"Sensual? Irresistible?" she queried softly, taking a leisurely sip of her drink in an attempt to slow her pulse. "Perhaps I should limit my alcohol intake."

"Perhaps we both should," he admitted, an attractive blush once again spreading across his neck. "I'm honestly not certain how much self-discipline I have left."

A rhythmic thudding in her temples was making it difficult to draw a full breath.

"That bad, is it?" she dared huskily, unable to draw her eyes away from him, one hand coming to rest lightly on his sleeve.

"Worse," he replied, the driving urge to pull her into his arms nearly making him shake.

They stared at each other wordlessly, mouths inching closer as his breath caressed her cheek. Her skin was alight, his every nerve at attention, a mutual need pushing them towards something they both needed desperately yet still feared.

"It's over there, you two," an overly-loud voice interrupted, forcing them step back from each other in an uncomfortable haste.

"What's that?" Matthew managed, raking his fingers across his scalp as he turned to identify the intruder, adjusting his jacket self-consciously.

"It's over there, Crawley," the man repeated, emphasizing a doorway which led to the exit. "The mistletoe."

The man raised his eyebrows suggestively, tossing Mary an appreciative grin as he added in a loud whisper, "There's also a Marriott nearby if you don't mind a quick stroll around the corner. Nice rooms, or so I'm told."

Her gaze fell to the floor at the mention of the hotel, her cheeks suddenly blazing, and Matthew thanked God silently that she missed the bastard's exaggerated wink as he left them in favor of the party.

"I'm sorry, Mary," he stammered, shaking his head in an attempt to clear lingering fog. "So very sorry."

"It isn't your fault," she returned, hastily, smoothing her dress as she sought to regain at least a fraction of composure.

"I do believe I own a decent portion of the responsibility," he insisted, taking her hand gently, summoning her eyes back to his. "Besides, Frank isn't exactly known for being mannerly. Or discreet, for that matter."

"Even better," she returned sharply. "Now all of your co-workers will think that I'm nothing but a tart attempting to lure you into my boudoir."

"They will think no such thing," he insisted, his brows creasing together. "I promise. Although," he continued, a hint of mischief returning to his lips, "I'd most certainly be a fool to protest too loudly if you were."

"Matthew!" she returned incredulously, blinking rapidly at this sudden change of direction. "What has gotten into you this evening?"

"It's the dress," he insisted with a shrug, the quirk of his grin melting all resistance. "I told you it rendered my will-power nearly non-existent."

She clasped her hand around his, grinning into eyes spellbound by her own.

"Come on, then," she ordered softly, ushering him away from their corner in the direction Frank had indicated.

"Where are we going?" he questioned, falling in step beside her, making no effort to slow her pace.

"You heard the man, Crawley," she smirked over her shoulder, the flash in her eyes nearly making him combust on the spot. "The mistletoe is over there."


End file.
